The room was empty.
Well, not entirely empty. The thin cord that had been stretched across at neck height might well have crushed the windpipe of a running man, but Masgava had caught it first and, at his height, it had hit him below the collar bones. Arcadios was leaning on a bed, swearing and, as the room came into view, yelled ‘tribuli!’
Fronto looked down. The floor was scattered sparsely with pointed iron caltrops, one of which Arcadios was busy removing from his foot, accompanied by some choice curses and the patter of blood droplets.
‘Some leaving gift,’ Biorix grunted, kicking one of the tribuli carefully aside. Apart from the painful traps, the room was empty. No Sons of Taranis. No kit bags, weapons, cloaks or masks.
Fronto sheathed his sword. ‘They must have come back here after the villa, so they can’t be far ahead of us.’
‘Unless they cleared out first and took everything with them to the villa?’ Arcadios mused.
Cavarinos shook his head. ‘They cannot have believed they would fail a second time. They have just left.’
‘No use asking the barman,’ Fronto sighed. ‘They wouldn’t have told him anything, even if he’d asked, which he wouldn’t. But we know they’re somewhere in the city and now there are only seven of them. Will they try again?’
Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘If they are true to their mission, no. They couldn’t risk any more losses if they hope to free the king. You can never be truly sure, though, with a man like Molacos. Fanatics are bad enough normally, but when you thwart them like you have, it can push them over the edge of the madness cliff. If Molacos still has a grain of sense, he had his ship ready to sail before they came for you. I would place money on them already being at sea.’
Fronto straightened and crossed to the window, stepping around the caltrops. He stood for a moment, leaning on the window and looking out across the city, and came to a decision. Turning, determination filling his expression, he folded his arms.
‘It’s time to take the fight to them, then. I did this with Hierocles and his Greek thugs for months, trying to stay peaceful and on the right side of law. And at every opportunity the slimy bastard ruined me and hurt my people and my business. And in the end I had to show my teeth to stop him. Now these rebel killers are doing the same. They keep us penned in the villa, defensive and panicked, waiting for the next attack. It’s time to show our teeth again.’
‘But how will we find them?’ murmured Biorix.
‘We know where they are going: to the carcer in Rome. That is where we’ll find them.’
‘And your family?’ Cavarinos prompted. ‘You can’t leave them here for fear of reprisals, and it would be too dangerous to take them with you.’
Fronto nodded. ‘Catháin has been badgering me to let him go to Campania and secure better sources of wine. He and a few of the men can accompany Balbus, Lucilia and the children to Puteoli. They’ll be safe at my mother’s villa there, especially with Andala with them. And Galronus is in Puteoli, too, so he’ll look after them. That means that once we pass Ostia we can concentrate on the remaining seven rebels.’
Masgava sheathed his sword. ‘It’s a good plan.’ He glanced at Cavarinos. ‘Will you be leaving us here?’
Fronto felt a strange lurch inside. He hadn’t thought of that. Would Cavarinos willingly walk into the Roman eagle’s own nest? Would he really want to see the jail that held his king; his kinsman in fact. Would he be able to face that and not feel the need to free the man himself? Cavarinos may seem one of them, but when faced with his own people languishing in the carcer…?
The Arvernian’s face betrayed his indecision, but resolution came down fast and complete. ‘I will see this through to the end. The Sons of Taranis must be stopped.’
‘Can we stop them sailing?’ Arcadios asked quietly. ‘I know we’re talking as though they’ve already left, but we can’t be sure.’
‘We know the enemy have a friendly ship,’ Biorix replied, ‘but it’s probably already left, and even if it hasn’t, with no name and the number of Gallic traders in port, tracking them will be like trying to find a particular turd in the latrines.’
‘You are full of delightful images,’ snorted Fronto. ‘But you’re right. They may well already have sailed. It’s not common to sail at night, but the port’s open and there’s nothing to stop them. Best we get ahead to Rome and see if we can find them there, like I said. Brutus’ orders do not cater for passengers in his fleet, but I will secure a place for all of us and he will not argue with me. The family and most of the staff and guard will come too. And at Ostia we’ll transfer the family onto a ship bound for Puteoli before we continue upriver.’
Cavarinos picked up one of the pointed tribuli from the floor and turned it round and round in his fingers. ‘Roman. Imagine that. Despite their aversion to Rome, they’re not above using your own weapons.’ He sighed and cast the caltrop aside. ‘To Rome, then.’
‘To Rome.’
Chapter Seventeen
Marcus Antonius leaned close to Caesar, trying not to catch the eye of Calenus on the general’s far side. ‘You think Gaius is safe among the Bellovaci?’
The general turned his aquiline features on his friend, confidante, distant cousin and senior officer. ‘You think he is not?’
‘Gaius is a good man, I know. But he’s little experience of command yet. A legion and a half to keep the Belgae in place. Have we done enough to pacify them?’
A knowing smile played on the general’s lips. ‘This is anxiety over our strategy, then? Not simply fraternal concern?’
‘I would hardly… it’s not my place…’
‘Ha.’ Caesar chuckled. ‘Worry not, Marcus. Your little brother is quite safe. He has some of my best tribunes and centurions with him, and the Belgae are beaten for good. They could barely raise a cheer, let alone an army. Besides, your mother would tear me to pieces if I placed Gaius in real danger.’
Antonius laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen a quieter people than the Bellovaci now.’
A roar brought their attention back to the open square before them. Cenabum was not what it had once been. The Carnutes had damaged the important river port in their original attack that had ignited the flames of that great revolt which had died at Alesia. In response, the legions had all-but razed it. Now a new village was rising amid the ashes of the old port. One day there would be aqueducts here, and paved roads and a forum, temples to the Capitoline triad. Now there were huts among the ruins. The smell of charred wood lingered even after so many months – years now, in fact. The place smelled like a pyre, and it would take a generation for that to fade. But they were not in Cenabum for the facilities, nor for the air. They were in Cenabum to make a statement.
Two legionaries emerged from one side of the square, amongst the throng. Each held a long, leather cord, and a moment later the man at the other end appeared. The Gaul was one of the Carnutes – the tribe that had founded this very settlement, had colonized the land around it, had fostered rebellion here, murdered Romans here. He was a noble and, according to rumour, a druid – the very druid who had raised up Vercingetorix to be king among the Gauls. He did not look quite so noble now.
‘Why Fabius didn’t do away with the man while he was here, I cannot fathom,’ murmured Calenus.
‘Fabius had enough on his platter,’ Antonius replied quietly, ‘as we now know. In fact, I cannot understand why we are here ourselves, Caesar, and not marching south to help the legions at Uxellodunon?’
The general leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Sometimes, gentlemen, something symbolic and powerful needs to be done to drive home the nails of suppression. Caninius, Fabius and Varus are more than capable of containing an oppidum until we arrive, and this is important. The central tribes are quiet. The Belgae are now settled. Caninius and the others are dealing with the south, but this region is a hotbed of trouble and has been since first we came. The Carnutes are every bit as guilty of protracted murder and rebellion as the Arverni.’